


"Sunshine"

by SherlockChlo



Series: Detective Squared [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Bisexual Male Character, Drugs, F/M, Faked Suicide, First Love, Gay Male Character, Jealousy, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Shrek - Freeform, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6485872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockChlo/pseuds/SherlockChlo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Greg have known each other for a long time, perhaps longer than most, but can their friendship face the strain of Sherlock's apparent suicide, and the loss of his best friend to a woman? Perhaps Shrek, a bunch of drugs, and a slow dance can fix their relationship.</p><p>(Or Five Times Sherlock and Greg nearly kissed, and One Time that they did)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AverageFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AverageFan/gifts).



> Hi, so this is my first 5+1 AU, and my first ever Sherstrade fanfiction. I am not a massive shipper, however I thought that this idea would be cute. I hope that there aren't too many mistakes (as it hasn't been beta'd), but please let me know if there are :)
> 
> I'll be uploading a chapter every week, as I uploaded it altogether and it annoyed me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> All rights go to ACD and the BBC

_**1.** _

“Poor kid,” Lestrade sighed, his eyes closing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Only his appearance gives away the tiredness that the Constable is feeling: the three day stubble on his chin; his dark bloodshot eyes; and an unclean shirt, unwashed and crinkled. This was what Lestrade expected when working three days in a row while the DI was off in the Canary Islands.

Opening his eyes once again, DC Lestrade looked at the teenage girl on the floor, her clothes strewn about her, and blood surrounding her head like a halo, and cussed softly under his breath. He crouched next to the body, studying the blood under her nails, when a deep shouting voice from beyond the tape caught his attention.

“Get _out_ of my way! I need to see the body,”

There was a slight pause as the PC, a small, but not incompetent, woman attempted to calm him, but the DC could see that her attempts were futile.

“Do you not understand that I _need_ to see the body in order to solve the murder, you complete imbecile,” the man continued to shout, and Lestrade could see that his body was shaking, even in the distance. As the shouting increased in volume, Greg made his way over to the tape where the two were engaged in a shouting match, tapping his colleague on the shoulder and letting her pass. He watched her go, and turned his eyes back to stare at the man before him.

Lestrade’s eyes scanned the man, more like a _boy_ frankly, noting the bloodshot eyes that matched his own. He knew that the man wasn’t tired in the way he was, however. He was erratic, his hands twitching by his sides. To Lestrade, the man looked ill.

“What are you trying to do, kid?” Lestrade asked him gruffly, arms folding across his chest as a sign of authority. After all, he could easily arrest the man if the need arose, something this kid didn’t seem to understand.

“Ah. Someone of slightly more intelligence. I need to see that body. I can help you solve the murder,” his voice was deep and hollow sounding, everything being a matter of fact to the man, as though he wasn’t trespassing on a crime scene, “I know who killed the girl, I just need to look at her finger nails and I’ll-

“Look, kid-“

“Stop. Calling. Me. Kid,” the dark man seethed, his hands clenching at his sides. Greg once again studied him, noticing his lack of coat, or at least any warm clothes. _He must be freezing_ Lestrade thought to himself, tempted to take his jacket off. Something stopped him: The man’s arms.

In the darkness of the abandoned street, the little light highlighted the marks in the crook of the tall man’s arms, telling Lestrade all he needed to know.

“So, you think that you can do a better job than the Police, do you, Sunshine?” Greg raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t mean for it to mock the junkie. He was quite fascinated that the man could hold himself practically upright. The DC had experienced junkies before, and he knew how out of it they could be. So this was quite the experience.

Apparently this annoyed the other man, as he rolled his eyes at the Detective.

“Honestly, call yourself a Detective? I bet you couldn’t even spell the word murder,” he seethed once more, moving close towards Greg until their noses were almost touching over the tape of the crime scene.

“Coming from the man who sticks needles in his arm for a living,” Greg knew that it was a low blow, but it made the man move away from his face, and turn away from the tape in anger.

“Cocaine helps me think,” the man said, causing Greg to scoff in disbelief. Was this guy being serious?

“And pigs can fly,” the detective muttered back, pulling the tape over his head and moving to stand next to the drug-addled man. From the corner of his eye, Greg could see a black car pull up at the end of the street, a tall man, umbrella (?) in hand, climbing out and standing facing them both. He took the younger man’s arm in his hand, and started to lead him towards the car.

“You can’t just waltz into a crime scene and claim that you know everything, you know, kid. Maybe one day if you got a job,” he looked at the other man as they walked, “and got off the shit that you put into yourself every day, then maybe you would be able to help. But for now, I don’t-Ow”

The junkie jumped against Lestrade, and pinned him to the wall of the alleyway, a hand on either side of his face, and his breath on Greg’s cheek. From this close proximity, Greg could see the younger man’s face, from his greasy curls to his cupid bow lips. He looked more ill than before, his breath coming out in shorts breaths as his teeth clenched. The grip tightened on his wrists.

“I wouldn’t advise that you test me, Constable Lestrade,”

“How do you-“

“I pick pocketed you. Very easy really,” he smiled slightly, “Too easy for a Detective. Honestly, a man of your age should surely be at Sergeant by now, shouldn’t he? Not had enough cases yet, Constable, or are you just waiting for the right time? Perhaps after you divorce your wife. She’s cheating on you-“

“Hold on a minute-“

“-you know. All very obvious by the stain on your-“

“Stop it.”

“-trousers.”

Greg struggled to get free from the man’s grip, but it was no use. For a tall, skinny guy he could really pin people. After a few moments, the Detective gave up, choosing instead to give the man a stern look.

Grey eyes met brown. The young man stared, moving closer to the Constable pinned against the wall.

_Oh god, is he…?_

When Lestrade could feel the younger man’s breath against his lips, his breath hitched slightly, not really understanding what the junkie was trying to achieve, that was until the taller man (who almost had three inches on him) smiled and moved away, dropping Lestrade’s wrists. As he walked away chuckling, the DC composed himself, watching the man’s back blend with the darkness of the alleyway they were standing in.

Then, the man turned, “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I expect we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, Constable.”

With that, Sherlock got into the car, the man with the umbrella following behind, leaving Lestrade standing against the wall. If he wasn’t mistaken, Sherlock had tried to- _No._

“Goodnight, Sunshine,” the man whispered to himself, shaking his head slightly, and turning back to the crime scene.

In the back of his mind, Greg knew that this wouldn’t be the last that he saw of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two guys. Shrek. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry. I meant to post this a few weeks back, but it hasn't been on the forefront of my mind, and I've been studying and working a lot.

2.

He was right.

For the next five years, Sherlock’s appearances at crime scenes became common faux pas, he got himself off the drugs, and Greg’s hair seemed to get greyer every time they saw each other.

Despite what Sherlock might say, Lestrade believed them to have formed a friendship in that time.

The two regularly went to the pub together (Sherlock watching and deducing as Greg drank, quite extensively), had takeouts at the end of a particularly troublesome case (“ _You really don’t need to-“ “Sherlock._ Eat.”), and sometimes even watching a movie together (“ _We need to get you educated on cultural references, Sunshine_ ”). Not that Sherlock would admit to these occurrences.

Greg’s wife left him; happier with another, and younger, man in her life.

Currently, they were watching ‘ _Shrek_ ’, a film that Greg knew his children enjoyed, and therefore Sherlock might too. When Greg found out about the Detective having not seen it, this, along with the other man’s lack of any cultural references, he sought to make right, and suggested that the two watch ‘ _Shrek_ ’ together, even if it was supposed to be a kid’s movie.

“But… _It’s Mike Myers_ ,”

“Is that someone that I’m supposed to know, Inspector?”

Lestrade sighed loudly, grabbed Sherlock by the arm and shoved him onto the sofa.

For the next hour or so, Sherlock satisfied Greg’s need (“ _I can leave if you’d prefer?”_ ) and watched the film, staying quiet. After the Inspector’s last outburst when Sherlock would comment on how the actor clearly wasn’t paying attention, or how their wife is sleeping with someone else whilst watching ‘ _Star Trek_ ’, he didn’t really fancy a repeat.

He had learned his lesson on that front.

But that didn’t stop Sherlock from looking at Greg every now and again. He tried to convince himself that he was simply looking at him in disbelief, but it turned out that he spent more time looking at Greg than at the actual film.

 

Greg, having seen the film a fair few times, spoke along with the characters, leaving the jokes to them in the hope of making Sherlock laugh. It didn’t work.

_“You are mean to me. You insult me and you don’t appreciate anything that I do!”_

Lestrade had forgotten about Donkey’s outburst about friendship, and he couldn’t help but sit a little straighter on the sofa as the character’s dialogue continued. He didn’t mean to react, but Sherlock’s movements added to the tension between them.

Next to him, Sherlock had stiffened. He knew that the Inspector didn’t remember this part of the movie, but he also knew that it could be linked to his own behaviour.

“ _You’re always pushing me around, or pushing me away,”_

Neither spoke as Shrek married the woman he loved, their friends around them, and True Love’s Kiss being shared. But then, as the characters began singing, so did Lestrade. It was only softly under his breath, but Sherlock could hear him just the same.

_“Don’t go changing, to try and please me, you’ve never let me down before”_

Sherlock had forgotten about the movie, instead choosing to listen to the DI’s voice beside him… He hadn’t known that Lestrade could sing.

_“I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you, for all my life”_

That is when Sherlock shot up off the sofa, his hands clenched at his sides. Lestrade stopped singing, instead looking up at his friend with wide eyes. What had he done wrong?

“ _Out._ ”

“Sherlock-?”

“Please leave my flat (if you can call it that), Inspector. I don’t want to have to get Mycroft onto you.”

Lestrade had had his share of the older Holmes brother. After first meeting Sherlock, Greg had discovered that the man with the umbrella at the crime scene was in fact Sherlock’s older brother, the ‘British Government’. From then on, the older Holmes had offered him money, which he _politely_ refused, and had kidnapped him on several occasions (“ _I assure you, Detective Inspector, that I have Sherlock’s well-being in mind_ ”).

Therefore, he understood the threat for what it meant, and promptly put his shoes back on, brushing off imaginary lint off his legs as he stood.

“Alright, Sunshine. Alright.”

Sherlock did not look at him once, choosing to stand by the door and hold the Detective’s coat out.

As Greg went to take his coat, the younger man pulled Lestrade closer, both of them still clinging to the piece of clothing between them, as it linked them together. 

Sherlock’s eyes were closed tightly as he breathed deeply, his head dipped to accommodate the Detective’s slightly shorter body. Greg’s eyes trailed across the clenched face, moving closer to the taller man.

As Greg’s hand brushed Sherlock’s cheekbone, the Detective’s eyes snapped open, his pupils dilated, but his stare harsh. Both men had been holding the coat between them tightly, so when Sherlock suddenly let go, Lestrade stumbled slightly, shaking his head.

“Goodnight, Sunshine. I’ll give you a call when I have a new case in, yeah?”

Despite posing it as a question, the younger Detective never answered him. His hands unclenched in favour of posing them under his chin.

_Be careful, little brother –MH_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's November, Sherlock is back from the dead, and the two have a little heart-to-heart to pass the time.

3.

Neither man spoke about the two, what Sherlock had labelled, incidents. They simply continued their professional relationship, and tried to keep their friendship going.

For a while, Greg had been satisfied, but then John Watson had come along and ruined everything. As much as he liked the man, John prevented Lestrade from being able to have a friendship with the younger detective. Well, Sherlock used John as a scape goat to not spend time with him anymore, in Lestrade’s opinion.

John was far better at pubs than Sherlock had been though, and the two regularly met to get out the frustration that built up in the week whilst spending time with the Consulting Detective. Lestrade offering John tips on how to manage the younger man.

And then Jim bloody Moriarty had come along and spoilt everything.

Case after case, Sherlock followed Moriarty’s problems as though he was a stray puppy.

The two spent less time together, and when they did at crime scenes, Sherlock would insult the Detective Inspector until he left him alone.

Sherlock’s reputation was practically down the drain thanks to Anderson and Donovan. Lestrade was angrier that he couldn’t do anything to help his friend. He promised himself that he would help Sherlock’s reputation recover, no matter how long it took.

And then the Moriarty situation became a matter of life and death, both Sherlock and Moriarty becoming the Grim Reaper’s play mates.

_Goodbye, Greg –SH_

For the following two years, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade worked, slept, ate and fought to return Sherlock Holmes’ reputation to what it had been before the Richard Brook nonsense. He cut his hair shorter, remembering a comment Sherlock had made about the length, and hating himself as soon as he had done so.

He had heard plenty of Anderson’s crazy theories (“ _Sighting number three: The Mysterious Juror_ ”), and had more than one hundred texts (he’d counted) ignored by John, but one thing he wasn’t prepared for was Sherlock’s return.

All he wanted was to smoke a cigarette in peace, a habit which he had picked up again almost immediately after Sherlock’s suicide, and then the man himself had to waltz right back in and act like everything was okay.

“Those things will kill you,”

“Oh you bastard,”

“You’ve been letting things slide, Graham,”

“Greg,”

“Greg.”

That moment, Sherlock pretending that he didn’t know Lestrade’s name to be funny, is when Lestrade forgave Sherlock Holmes for leaving him behind to deal with the Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty nonsense.

Greg pulled Sherlock into his body, his arm tight around the dead man’s neck, and his face hidden in the crook of his neck. Slowly, Sherlock’s own arms found their way around Greg’s back, holding him just as tightly. Sherlock was back.

“Where the hell have you been, Sunshine?” he asked, pushing Sherlock away from himself to get a better look at the man.

“Saving England.” Was Sherlock’s abrupt answer, his head bowed slightly, and his eyes looking anywhere but Greg.

“Coffee?”

Sherlock had smiled widely, and held out his hand for a cigarette.

“I thought these things will kill you?”

“You can’t kill an already dead man, Lestrade.”

Greg laughed slightly, placed a cigarette in Sherlock’s lips and held his lighter to the taller man’s mouth. Once the cigarette was lit, Sherlock breathed the smoke in deeply, savouring the forgotten burn deep in his lungs.

Lestrade could only watch the younger man’s movements, his eyes trailing up and down his scarily thin form, stopping to watch the incredibly long fingers rest against Sherlock’s lips. He didn’t mean to stare, he really didn’t.

He tried to convince himself that he was trying to remind himself that Sherlock was truly there and not still buried six feet under.

That was when Lestrade had a thought, “Have you spoken to John?”

Sherlock froze.

“He didn’t take it well then?”

When he received no answer, Greg continued, “He’ll forgive you in the end,” he said as they started walking to Greg’s car, “John Watson is a good man. It’ll just take him time,”

“I don’t want it to take time,” Sherlock replied petulantly, the pout clear in his voice.

“Yeah, well. Maybe think about that the next time you decide to throw yourself off a building, eh, Sunshine?”

Greg could practically hear Sherlock’s teeth clenching together in his mouth, so he backed off on his attempt at a wake-up call. Once they reached Greg’s car, both men slid inside, glad to be out of the cold.

“My place?”

“Is adequate enough,”

“Look, just because you’ve been back for ten minutes, doesn’t mean you can start being a dick again.”

Sherlock turned away, looked out of the window and smiled to himself. At least someone had been pleased to see him after all his time away. Well, he was the happiest out of his… Friends.

“-Sherlock? Did you hear me?”

“I’m sure that whatever you were saying was frightfully interesting, but I haven’t been around people who would like to make conversation with me for a long time, Inspector,” his smile became sad and he turned to look at Greg as he drove: They were almost at his apartment.

Greg swallowed slightly, Sherlock’s eyes following the movement of his Adam’s apple with interest, before he spoke again, “I asked you whether you’d been to many places while you were away?”

“A lot of my time was spent underground and hanging from a wall, but yes, many places.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was attempting to dismantle Moriarty’s network; turns out he had no problem committing suicide, because he had already been diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease,” Sherlock sat looking straight ahead now, his hands clenching as he told the Detective about his story, “I am sure that if I had been in his place, I would have done the same thing.

“His network was much harder to remove than I predicted, hence it took two years to do.”

As he attempted to drive, Greg tried to listen to Sherlock’s story, “So, why _did_ it take two years?” he asked, pulling up in front of his apartment.

Sherlock removed his seat belt, and sat staring at the DI, “Now that requires something a little stronger than coffee, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded and got out of the car. By the time he made it up the stairs behind Sherlock, the other man had already let himself into the building, and was removing his coat. Greg, being the detective that he had grown to be in Sherlock’s absence, watched as Sherlock’s body fought against the movement Sherlock was trying to force it to do. He moved closer, helping him remove his coat, and hanging it on the coat rack. He then repeated the same action with his own coat.

“I don’t need your pity,” Sherlock sneered, his shoulders hunched and his head hung slightly. Where Greg had touched became quite warm and began to tingle.

“Of course not, Sunshine. Helping someone out of their coat isn’t pitying them, after all,” Greg smiled slightly, moving into the kitchen and reaching for two mugs.

“I said something stronger than coffee, Lestrade,”

Greg hummed, and poured half a mug of whiskey into both, apparently they’d need it after all. When he walked back into the living room, Sherlock sat cross legged on the sofa, his hand held out in preparation for his drink.

“Whiskey, Lestrade?” he smiled slightly, “Wise choice for this story,”

Lestrade made himself comfortable next to Sherlock, took a sip of his drink, and focused on the dead man’s tale.

“As I said, Moriarty had Huntington’s Disease, and he therefore saw our little game as an easier way out than the way that the disease would take him.

“But, before his demise, to ensure that I too perished with him, he had hired three hit men. One on John Watson, one on Mrs Hudson, and one on you. Of course,-“

Greg spluttered, “Me?”

Sherlock fixed the older man with his signature stare before continuing, “Of course there was no gun trained on Molly Hooper, as I had predicted, nor was there one on Mycroft. Why would there be? Moriarty knew that Mycroft would tell John about all the secrets he had spilt, and the feelings that I had towards my brother anyway, so there was no need to have a gun on him.

“Why would I commit suicide for my older brother, who, might I add, had just told Moriarty all he needed in order to destroy me?

“However, that was Moriarty’s big mistake. He fell for my cruelty towards Molly Hooper, and he knew I would not forgive Mycroft, which left them both free to help me fake my suicide. I won’t trouble you with the details of that day, as they are far too long.

“For the next two years, I travelled around the World, solving a case or two along the way-“

“So it _was_ you!”

“Pardon?”

Greg laughed slightly, taking a sip of his whiskey and shaking his head, “Anderson. He followed your cases over the two years you were away. Everyone thought that he was completely mad, mind you. Poor sod.”

“As interesting as Anderson is, I am attempting to tell you a story that I will never tell another soul, so please take this opportunity before it is gone, Inspector.

“I was held captive three times in total, the last time being the worst of the three. I was held captive for two weeks by the Czech part of Moriarty’s network, and starved for days on end. They would give me small amounts of water every now and again, but nothing that would keep me alive for too much longer.

“I was deprived of sleep, beaten, and eventually my brother turned up.

“He relished the opportunity to gloat over my capture, of course, but I managed to get myself out of there quick enough. He had me stay in hospital for the next five days as the doctors stitched up my back.”

“ _What?_ ”

Sherlock, for the first time since starting his monologue, turned to the DI, and frowned slightly, “Have you ever been tortured, Detective Inspector? Most people come out with injuries of some sort, _if_ they don’t die.”

“Why do you sound so matter of fact about it?” Sherlock shrugged and took a sip of his drink. Greg downed the rest of his own and asked, “Can I see?”

“Why would you want to do that?” Greg didn’t reply, so Sherlock’s eyebrows raised, hidden beneath the curls resting on his forehead, before saying, “If it helps you understand why I was away for so long, then fine,”

They both placed their mugs on the table, stood and faced each other. Sherlock’s fingers found the buttons on his shirt, the skin looking normal to Greg underneath. Once the shirt had been shed, the DI saw drops of blood from where the wounds had opened over the day.

Sherlock stood for a moment, simply staring at Greg, before turning slowly. He flinched as he heard the gasp from Lestrade behind him, knowing the severity of the wounds on his back, but not wanting to imagine how it looked.

Then there were cold fingers touching him, feeling him and soothing him.

“Some of these have opened? What the hell happened?” As Greg traced the marks as softly as he could, he remembered when they had reunited, and asked, “Oh god, this wasn’t me, was it, Sunshine? I-I’m so-“

“Stop bumbling, Lestrade. Of course it wasn’t you, you fool. It was actually, Jo-“ Sherlock stopped, thinking back to seeing John again after two years, and how his friend(?) had reacted. He sighed, “When I saw John earlier tonight, he didn’t exactly… React well to me being back.”

Greg rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his arms clutching onto the taller man’s shoulders, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock moved away slightly, and attempted to pick up his shirt. Greg, over the slight hurt felt by being removed from Sherlock’s body, saw the Detective struggling, and knelt, picking up the shirt.

As Sherlock stared at him, Greg said, “Turn around and hold your arms out,” so Sherlock did.

Greg first pulled Sherlock’s left hand through the shirt, and then his right. He then pushed the shirt up and over Sherlock’s shoulders, feeling Sherlock’s arms as he did so, and asking Sherlock to turn around. Starting from the bottom up, he began doing the buttons up on the shirt.

“I missed you, you know,” Greg practically whispered, his hands on the third button from the bottom. That’s when Sherlock’s hands grabbed Greg’s wrists, holding him against his chest for a moment.

“I only did what I had to do,” Sherlock answered, resting his forehead against Greg’s own, breathing softly, “I wish I could have come back sooner, but-“

“Shh, it’s okay, Sunshine, I know,” Greg looked up slightly, directly into Sherlock’s eyes, moving closer. He huffed out a laugh, “If you had come back sooner, I wouldn’t have been able to clear your name,”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Lestrade,”

“What are friends for?” Greg hummed, laughing slightly against Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock dipped his head slightly, looking at the DI’s lips, both of their heads moving closer. Their breath mingled as they inched closer together, Sherlock’s hands tight on Greg’s wrists. As Greg’s lips skimmed the Detective’s own, there was a knock at the door.

Sherlock quickly dropped the DI’s wrists, moving towards the window to finish doing up his own shirt, tucking it back into his trousers.

Greg could feel his cheeks burning, so he cleared his throat, and moved towards the front door of his apartment.

Opening the door, he saw Sally Donovan on the other side, “Alright, gov?”

“Yeah, Sally. Um, what’s up?”

Sally’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, before she replied, “There’s been a robbery. I’m sorry, sir, but we need you down at the station,” her eyes looked behind the DI, probably at Sherlock, “Do you have a guest, sir?”

“Oh no, no,” Greg turned slightly to look at Sherlock putting on his coat, “He is just leaving. Um, go down to the car and I’ll join you in a minute,”

“Okay, sir,” Sally replied, turning away from the door.

When Greg looked back at Sherlock, the man had disappeared, the window causing the blind to hit against it in replace of Sherlock. Greg sighed, pulling his coat on, and leaving the apartment.

 _Oh god_ Lestrade thought, hoping that he would see Sherlock again soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I thought I'd post two chapters today because I haven't posted in a while :) I hope you enjoyed them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child has gone missing, how will Sherlock help?

_ **4.** _

They did.

The next time the two saw each other, it was at a crime scene.

Sherlock waltzed onto the scene, John Watson at his side, and actually smiled at the DI.

“Good morning, Lestrade. I hope you have something good for me today,” _Ah, so that’s why he’s so happy._

“Sherlock,” John chastised at his side. Good old John Watson. Greg was glad that the two were friends again, because Sherlock and John were two friends that helped each other in more ways than they could ever know.

“I wouldn’t say ‘good’; a child has been kidnapped,” Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, the Consulting Detective still acting like a child himself sometimes.

“Oh god,” John said, his hands clenched at his side, “What happened?”

“Grace Nicholls, aged 8, was supposedly on her way to school when she was kidnapped, but there are no witnesses to her abduction,” Greg talked the two men through the case as they walked into the house before them, “According to the father, Grace usually leaves the house at five past eight am, and walks to the bus stop to catch the number fourteen bus,”

Sherlock looked around the foyer as the three walked into the house, his eyes trailing over everything to look for the clue that would help him find the girl.

“Where were the parents?”

“The dad, Martin Nicholls, works as a doctor, and started his shift at seven thirty am that day, so he would have left at quarter to seven. The mother, Georgia, passed away from breast cancer when Grace was three,”

John hung his head slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Are there any other people who regularly enter the house?”

“Martin Nicholls has a girlfriend, Vanessa Howard, aged 29, who stays overnight most of the week,”

Sherlock stopped looking around briefly, “A considerably younger step mother, perhaps jealous of the girl who is the centre of Martin’s world: Not her.”

“What does she do?” John asked Lestrade, he too looked around the room at the evidence.

“She’s a poet, and works from home,” Lestrade said, taking the two men into Grace’s bedroom, “She would have been here when Grace left for school.”

“Are you sure that Grace definitely left the house?”

“Well, Vanessa said that she left. Apparently she heard the door slam at eight am this morning, but Grace didn’t say goodbye to her.”

Sherlock moved around the room, searching in the wardrobe and under the bed. Beneath the eight year old’s pile of stuffed toys, Sherlock found the girl’s school uniform, screwed up, and clearly put there to hide the evidence.

When he turned, Sherlock held up the school uniform, clearly ready for the child to wear, and stared directly at the DI.

“I don’t believe that Grace Nicholls left for school this morning, Detective Inspector.” He looked around the room again for a moment, “Where are Vanessa Howard and Martin Nicholls?”

“We let them go,” said a voice from the door.

“What?” Sherlock seethed, turning to stare at Sally Donovan.

“Martin Nicholls wanted to take Vanessa away from the commotion,”

“How were they both acting? Were they suitably upset for a parent who has had a child kidnapped?”

Sally stopped for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed, “Well, not really. But we just put it down to shock,”

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment, his heart racing and pounding in his ears, “We need to track both Nicholls and Howard. They’ve kidnapped Grace, and are planning to kill her,” he turned and raced out of the room, “Vanessa doesn’t want an illegitimate child in their relationship; she probably wants money, and Martin, all to herself.”

“And Grace ruins that,” John says, following after the taller man, “Oh god. Poor girl.”

“She won’t be a poor girl if we can find her before they get rid of her,” Sherlock shouts at the police officers around the house.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade shouts after him, “We’re tracking them right now, but we can’t just go running off into the blue-“

But Sherlock was already spouting out everything he knew, his head pounding slightly at the thought of a child being hurt by her own father, “Grace was in the boot of her father’s car, and then he left her in a locked cupboard at the hospital while he returned home to help stage the scene with his girlfriend. They have probably already gotten her back after the incompetency of the officers around here, and are taking her somewhere remote to dispose of her,” he turned towards the DI and pointed slightly, “We need to track the car. Right now.”

“As I’ve said, we’re already on it, let’s go,”

“John, you go with Donovan.”

In Lestrade’s car, Sherlock sat in silence and watched the road as they swerved between the cars and towards the red dot that appeared on his mobile’s map.

“They will probably stop at an abandoned building, much easier to get away from because there will be no life around,” Sherlock said, trying to break the silence in the car.

“Just keep watching the map, Sunshine. You’re my eyes right now,” Lestrade snapped slightly, thinking only about Grace’s wellbeing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hurt on Sherlock’s face, “I’m sorry, Sunshine. I’m just-“

“I understand,”

“-getting stressed. You know how I hate child abductions,” he sighed slightly, but not taking his eyes off the road.

“Take this next left.”

Lestrade turned the car, speeding down the street.

For the next twenty minutes, Lestrade chased the Nicholls’ car, always checking that Donovan wasn’t far behind. Then the red dot stopped moving.

“Take the second exit at the roundabout, and then the first left on that road, quite far down,”

Lestrade followed Sherlock’s directions, speeding up slightly when there was no traffic around them, besides Donovan’s car. He knew that they were running out of time, and that Grace’s life was in the balance.

Suddenly Lestrade asked, “How could a parent, a _parent_ , do this to their own child? Christ.”

“Some people do strange things for love,” Sherlock said, thinking that he was whispering.

“I thought that you didn’t understand it?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock was quick to defend himself, “I base things of pure facts. John, Mary, you,”

Before Lestrade could reply, Sherlock shouted at him to stop the car, and they both shot out.

“They’re in here?” Lestrade said in disbelief.

They were standing outside of an abandoned prison, half destroyed by a fire. Greg remembered seeing it on the news four years previously, but he never thought that he would be standing outside the building preparing to save a child.

“We should wait for John and Donovan,”

As the other police car pulled up to the scene, Donovan requesting back up on the radio, Sherlock ran into the building.

“Sherlock!” John and Greg shouted in unison.

But Sherlock didn’t listen, he needed to find Grace before her father stopped a short life from carrying on. He ran inside, checking every room he ran past, hearing John and Lestrade shouting behind him. He carried on.

“Mr Nicholls!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the blackened walls inside the abandoned prison, “Grace!”

From behind him, Sherlock heard something move.

He turned swiftly, throwing his arm out to catch Vanessa’s arm holding a knife. He twisted her arm behind her back, and threw the knife away.

“Where is Grace?” he said.

Vanessa only laughed, no remorse in the sound.

“Where is Grace?” he shouted this time, wanting to save the girl. He didn’t have time to waste on this woman, cackling her head off on the floor. As he held her onto the ground, standing in an open room, he heard a squeal.

“Shut up!”

As much as Sherlock wanted to hurt the woman, he had to save Grace from her own father, and that was far more important than the evil woman on the floor. Producing Lestrade’s handcuffs from his coat pocket, he handcuffed Vanessa to a near-by bar, and leaving her there.

“Sherlock?” he heard Lestrade shout, three sets of footsteps now echoing on the walls.

“In here, Inspector,”

Lestrade raced into the room, Donovan and John close on his heels.

“Is that-?”

Sherlock ran off, anxious to find Grace. He heard John cuss under his breath behind him, wondering what had gotten into his friend. Lestrade, on the other hand, had a clue.

“Grace!” he shouted, “Grace! Grace!”

That’s when he heard another squeal, a young girl was screaming against something. Down the corridor, there was an almost completely blackened room, with hardly any light entering from the windows.

In the corner of the room, there was a small bundle on the floor, shaking and crying and hiding under a practically destroyed desk. Near the bundle, who was obviously Grace, there lay a body.

From where he stood, Sherlock could see that the body, the man, had been stabbed in the back- The knife still protruding from the back of the man. The girl screamed against a gag in her mouth even louder when she saw Sherlock standing there.

He moved slowly over towards her, trying not to scare the girl even further. Holding his hands in the air, he said to her, “It’s okay, Grace. My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he spoke a bit louder so that he knew she could hear him, “I’m here to save you.”

From behind him, John shouted his name and ran into the room, “Sherlock, what are you-?”

“Shh,” Sherlock practically shouted, John would ruin the trust he was building with Grace. He needed her to come out on her own.

Turning back towards Grace, he smiled at her, still holding his hands out in front of him, and said, “I need you to come with me, Grace. We need your help to lock Vanessa away for a very long time,” When she didn’t move, Sherlock continued, “I know how scared you must be, Grace. Believe me I really do understand.

“When I was around your age, my uncle, a man who I trusted with my life, took my siblings and I away from our parents in order to ‘save us’.

“My uncle wasn’t very well, you see, Grace, but we thought that he loved us. What has happened to your dad, was what happened to my eldest brother, Sherrinford. The police came looking for us, but they were not there in time to save my brother.

“I was so scared, Grace. So, so scared. But I had to be brave, just like you have to be now. Do you think that you can do that for me?”

The entire time, the eight year old cried into the gag, listening to what Sherlock was saying to her. By this time, Greg and Donovan were also in the room, all three of them standing by the doorway. Grace’s face still looked scared, but she started to shift her body out from under the desk.

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief, but his heart was twisting inside his chest. He hadn’t known.

Grace crawled towards Sherlock, who was now kneeling on the floor, and let him undo the gag in her mouth, and the binds on her arms. Once free, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck, his own arms winding around her tiny body, both holding each other tightly.

From where he stood, Lestrade could have sworn that Grace was comforting Sherlock, and not the other way around.

“Shall we get you cleaned up, Grace?” Sherlock asked softly, waiting for the nod of Grace’s head against his shoulder. When he got it, he stood up and placed his hand on the girl’s head, keeping her head in the crook of his neck.

“Sherlock-“

“We need to get you to hospital, don’t you agree, Grace?” the girl nodded, so Sherlock moved past his three colleagues and outside, whispering to Grace about how brave she was, and asking her about her favourite things the entire time.

Behind him, quite far back, Sally said to Lestrade, “Who would have thought that the Freak was good with kids?”

“Sally,” Lestrade snapped, “I thought that after everything that has happened that you’d be the last person to call him that again. Do I have to remind you-?”

“No, Gov,” she replied, skulking away slowly.

John almost ran to keep up with Sherlock, hoping that Grace would let him have a look while they waited for the ambulances to arrive. He couldn’t stomach looking at the body on the floor anymore.

Once outside, John looked for Sherlock holding the bundle, and spotted him on a nearby log; part of a tree that had been hit by lightning a few months ago in the storms.

Grace now sat on Sherlock’s knee, still looking sad, but smiling every now and again as Sherlock told her something that she found funny.

“Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, Sociopath and really great with kids,” John muttered to himself.

Eventually, Grace had to be left at the hospital, Greg forcing Sherlock to leave her side, even if just for now. The Detective looked shattered, so Greg offered him a lift back to Baker Street in his car.

When they arrived at the door of 221B, both men left the car and walked towards the door. Sherlock un-straightened the door knock with a sigh, and unlocked the door.

“Apparently my big brother is here, so I won’t trouble you with inviting you in,” he said, smiling slightly at the DI. His eyes were hooded, and his smile was crooked, clearly tired after a long night. “You should get some sleep, Inspector. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, and Grace needs us at our best,”

“Hey. I’m the one who should be telling you that,” Greg laughed softly, leaning against the door, facing the younger man.

Greg looked Sherlock up and down for a moment, his eyes stopping every now and again to admire something on Sherlock’s body.

“You know, Sunshine,” he sighed softly, showing himself to be tired too, “you were really great today. Who’d have thought it; you and kids get on.”

“Indeed,”

“I’m sorry about Sherrinford,”

“That, Inspector, is a story for another day,”

“Grace seemed to really like you,” Greg laughed slightly, looking down at the floor, “John and I were really surprised by how much though,”

Sherlock pulled a face, “I have never not claimed to be good with children,” he said, slightly offended by what the DI was saying.

“I don’t mean it like that, Sunshine,”

Sherlock froze, “Why do you call me that?” he asked, nervous about what the answer might be.

“What? Sunshine?” Sherlock nodded, so Lestrade sighed, “I call you Sunshine because you are the light of many people’s lives, and I don’t think you even realise it,”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes closing.

Their heads rested on each other against the door, both of their eyes closed, and their breath mingling between them. As their noses touched, Sherlock heard someone approach the door from inside.

As the door opened, Sherlock pulled away swiftly, but reluctantly. Mycroft appeared from behind the door, looking both men up and down and deciding on, “Brother dear,”

Greg sighed, pushing himself off of the wall he’d managed to catch onto, and said, “Goodnight, Sunshine. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and with that, he left.

When he was sure that the DI was out of ear shot, Mycroft said, “The Detective Inspector, Sherlock? Really? I told you to be careful,”

Sherlock smiled sarcastically, “What do you think I’m doing?”

Mycroft sneered slightly, moving out of the way for Sherlock to walk into the flat, “I believe we need to talk.”

Sherlock sighed loudly; this was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

__5.

From November to January, besides Grace’s case, and Christmas, nothing interesting happened for Sherlock. He had seen Grace a few more times since she had been out of hospital, now with her grandparents and recovering from the Vanessa Howard attack.

Of course Sherlock knew that Grace would never be the same, now with no parents, but anything he could do to help, he would. No matter how much people judged him for it.

John and Mary had gone away for the first two weeks of the New Year, someone hot, Sherlock presumed. But that meant that there was no one around to replace him. He’d tried Molly, but she had her own life to lead.

So, when he got a call from Greg about a robbery gone wrong, Sherlock needed the distraction. He’d consulted on cases for five years before John had arrived on the scene (no pun intended); he could do it again now.

He was right.

Once he arrived at the scene, in an alleyway near the Thames, he immediately spotted Lestrade, giving him a tight smile.

“Mornin’,” Lestrade called, his breath showing in the air, the cold getting to him slightly.

“What do we have?” Sherlock asked, his breath too showing in the cold of London’s January air. He crouched down next to the body, “Forty-five year old male, clearly an alcoholic, and an avid smoker, shown by the colour of his fingernails. Homeless going by his clothes and the frankly awful smell-“

“Sherlock.”

“-and I’d say he was stabbed three times, consecutively when he didn’t have the money. _Or_ he annoyed someone, who was simply getting their own back.” Sherlock hummed slightly, “It’s definitely the latter. Homeless and rich? I don’t think so,”

There was a noise from just behind the tape.

Sherlock turned watching as someone attempted to climb out of a bin in the alleyway. Once he saw Sherlock, however, he ran.

Sherlock was up and after him before Lestrade could say anything. The older man was never far behind him, trying to keep his promise to John about keeping Sherlock safe while he was on holiday.

He needed to be at the wedding after all, best man and everything.

When the two made it to the bridge over the Thames, Lestrade stopped and watched as the runner slowed to a stop, facing Sherlock and standing near to the bridge’s edge.

“Come on then ‘olmes. Let’s see how much of the legend is true, eh?” The man held his arms out, his hands clenched into fists, clearly ready to fight Sherlock.

From where Greg was standing, he could see the man throw the first punch, Sherlock dodging it effortlessly, and grabbed the criminal by his wrist. Lestrade could only watch as Sherlock wrestled with the man. As soon as it looked like Sherlock was about to get the man on the ground, ready for Greg to arrest, the man used all of his weight to push Sherlock off of him and against the side of the bridge.

That’s when Lestrade ran.

But he was too late.

Sherlock lost his balance, the man holding him too high against the bar, his hands around his throat.

Sherlock disappeared into the Thames.

In a split second, he wasn’t standing there anymore.

Greg screamed his name.

Looking over the bridge, he couldn’t see Sherlock.

He forgot about the criminal.

He ran.

His lungs burned, and his legs screamed at him, but he was at the riverside in less than a minute.

Looking into the river, he could see Sherlock’s body bobbing on the surface, face-down in the water.

But, he wasn’t swimming.

Greg knew about Sherlock’s swimming abilities, and if he wasn’t swimming…

 _Something has gone wrong_ Lestrade thought to himself.

He didn’t think about his clothes.

He didn’t think about the cold.

He swam.

More of his body began to scream.

But he _had_ to get to Sherlock before the man drowned.

Greg got to Sherlock quickly, turning him over in the water and seeing the gash on his forehead, the wound already bruising.

_God._

He pulled and swam.

Breathe.

Pulled.

Swam.

_Breathe._

Once he reached the river side, he dragged Sherlock by his coat onto the shore.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Holding forehead, avoiding the cut, and trying not to go into panic mode, Greg put his mouth to Sherlock’s, breathing out harshly, his own breath ragged from the cold.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Breathe.

One.

Two.

Three-

“Sherlock…” Greg cried, smoothing his hand down over Sherlock’s wet curls. When he didn’t answer, Greg began the compressions again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Fi-

Splutter.

Cough.

“Sherlock,” he said, tears forming in his eyes as he looked down to the choking man on the stones beneath him.

Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he stared up at the man above him, giving a lopsided smile.

Greg tried to smile back, but he was shivering too much, for the first time, feeling the cold of the January air since the man had gone over the side of the bridge.

“You complete and utter prick!” he tried to scream, but it only came out softly. He looked up the bridge to see Donovan rushing to look over the edge, shouting into her radio as she spotted the two men lying on the river side.

When Lestrade looked back down, Sherlock’s right hand clutched at his coat, pulling him closer so that they were practically mouth to mouth laying on the side of the Thames.

“Th-thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered, his lips touching Greg’s cheek.

“Y-you’re welcome, Sunshine,”

Their noses nudged.

Their eyes closed.

Over Greg’s shoulder, the sound of sirens and Donovan’s shrill voice made the men jump apart from each other.

“Let’s g-get you better before J-John gets back, eeeh, Sunshine?” he smiled brightly, holding Sherlock tight into his body to keep him as warm as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the climax of our story has arrived. Sherlock and Greg do the deed.

**+1.**

_Oh what a night, later December, back in ‘63_

Greg watched.

He might have had slightly too much to drink, but that was reasonable, he thought. Especially after the near-murder, at John’s wedding of all places.

Who’d have guessed it?

As he looked around the room, full of strangers and friend alike, his head nodded along to the music.

_What a very special time for me, as I remember, what a night_

Ah, Frankie Vallie and the Four Seasons. Ever the crowd pleaser.

While the guests danced, the happy couple stood in the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by their friends and family, and talking to Sherlock.

Greg couldn’t deny it anymore.

He thought that Sherlock was absolutely beautiful.

That therefore meant that he required staring at.

_Oh what a night, you know I didn’t even know her name_

Beautiful didn’t cover Sherlock Holmes.

Gorgeous, stunning, exquisite. Perhaps.

All that Greg knew was that he was completely and utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

_But I was never gonna be the same, what a lady, what a night_

From the first moment they’d met, Sherlock completely off his face at Greg’s crime scene, and every moment they had spent together since, Greg had been in love with the younger man, and he hadn’t even known it.

_Oh I, I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room_

From where Greg was stood, Sherlock looked like he was bickering with John and Mary, the Detective towering over the other two.

His eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes were moving over the two quickly.

_Hey my, as I recall it ended much too soon, oh what a night_

Then Sherlock smiled. It was a smile that John Watson only seemed to receive.

The groom’s hand, made its way around the back of Sherlock’s neck, affection clear between the two men.

_Hypnotising, mesmerising me, she was everything I dreamed she’d be_

Then Sherlock’s expression turned sad; his lips pursed, his eyes watered slightly, and his head hung. Despite just giving John and Mary some good news, or so it seemed, Sherlock still looked sad.

Perhaps it was regret.

Perhaps it was the feeling of loss.

Perhaps it was realisation that the World continued to move forward around him, leaving Sherlock Holmes trailing behind, and clutching at the straws of life, trying to keep up.

_Sweet surrender, what a night_

_And I felt the rush like a rolling bolt of thunder_

_Spinning my head around and taking my body under_

_Oh what a night_

Everyone was singing along.

John and Mary started to dance, leaving Sherlock alone in the middle of the crowd. The one place where he currently doesn’t belong.

Greg watched as Sherlock turned to Mary’s chief bridesmaid, _Janine_ Greg thought, before smiling. When she pointed to the man in front of her, Sherlock once again looked sad. Alone.

This was when Mrs Hudson asked him to dance, and Greg was more than happy to oblige.

_Oh I, I gotta funny feeling when she walked in the room_

_Hey my, as I recall it ended much too soon_

_Oh what a night,_

As Greg danced, he listened to the music, just as Sherlock did ten metres away from him. Both appreciated the next set of lyrics, and felt the twinge in their hearts.

But neither of them let it show. Not really.

_Why’d it take so long to see the light?_

_Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right_

_What a lady, what a night_

From where he stood, it seemed like Sherlock had had enough of standing alone. Greg guessed that he thought that he had no reason being here anymore, and that he shouldn’t spoil everyone else’s fun by being sad.

Sherlock, in fact, wanted to leave so that he could return to his flat.

Behind his sock index, in the third drawer down, Sherlock would remove the small black leather wallet, and take something a little bit stronger than alcohol.

Sherlock grabbed his coat, waiting until he was outside of the reception to start pulling it around himself. As he walked, he sighed, listening to the fun inside the building.

_I felt the rush like a rolling bolt of thunder_

_Spinning my head around and taking my body under_

“Sherlock!” Greg shouted from the doorway, watching as the taller man walked away.

_Oh what a night_

_Do do do do do,_

_Do do do do do_

Sherlock continued walking, he really didn’t want to be at the reception longer than what was necessary, after all.

Even if Lestrade wanted him to stay, he wouldn’t.

“ _Sherlock,_ please,” Greg called from behind him, running now to catch up to the man.

Sherlock stopped, turning around swiftly to face the DI, “What?” he said calmly, trying not to give away anything in his posture.

“I know how you feel, watching John in there. I understand, Sunshine, I really do,” he sighed slightly, throwing his hands in the air, “but I also know you, and what you’re going to do, and I’m begging you,” he paused for a moment, “don’t.”

“Don’t try and stop me, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped.

_Oh what a night_

_Do do do do do,_

_Do do do do do_

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, slightly breathless due to the nerves that he could feel building in his stomach.

The Detective spluttered slightly, “Excuse me?” Sherlock’s eyes squinted at the older man, caught completely off guard by the proposition. His heart clenched slightly.

“I asked if you would like to dance with me,” Lestrade clarified; he’d been waiting through the entire service and reception for the chance to ask, but Sherlock almost removed him of the opportunity by leaving.

“What makes you think that I would dance with _you_ , Inspector?”

“Two things: One, you don’t have anyone to dance with, and neither do I. And the second-“

“Um-“

“-, you love to dance. Anyone who knows Sherlock Holmes knows that he loves to dance,”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the other man, unable to understand how the DI had managed to work out his hidden passion.

From inside the building, the soft tune of a piano began to play through the speakers, the beginning of the song ‘ _Make It To Me’_.

Greg looked back to the reception briefly, recognising the song (Sam Smith being one of his guilty pleasures in life).

“ _My mind runs away to you, with a thought I hope you’ll see,_ ”

“Inspector-“

“ _Can’t see where it’s wandered to, but I know where it wants to be,_ ”

“Lestrade, I really don’t-“

“ _I’m waiting patiently, though time is moving slow. I have one vacancy, and I wanted you to know that-_ “

“ _Please-_ “

“ _You’re the one designed for me, a distant stranger that I will complete. I know you’re out there,_ ” the older detective sighed slightly, his hands balled into fists at his sides, he lifted his head to look Sherlock directly in the eyes, “ _We’re meant to be_ ,”

Sherlock smiled slightly, mostly to himself, but also letting Greg see some of it. Some of his previous deductions had been correct after all. Removing his hands from his pockets, he moved closer to Greg and smile at him.

He was ready now.

Sherlock gave Greg the same smile that he had previously only given John and Mary.

“Dance with me,” Greg said softly, his heart beating in his chest loudly. He held his hand out for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock took the hand.

Greg wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s waist, holding onto his left hand tightly against his chest. Sherlock’s hand, reluctantly, made its way onto Greg’s shoulder.

In time with the music, Greg swayed the both of them, holding tightly onto Sherlock where he could.

They continued this way, staring into each other’s eyes, and moving to the beat.

_Make It to Me_

_Make It to Me_

_Make It to Me_

“You know, I can read you a lot better than you give me credit for,” Sherlock only hummed in response, “I’ve known you for a long time, Sherlock. A really long time,” his voice was soft and welcoming, “Perhaps longer than most people. And over the years, I’ve gotten to know you. Learnt the signs,”

Sherlock’s throat constricted.

“For a long time, I thought that you had no conscience; that you didn’t care about the people around you, unless they were assisting you in helping your boredom. A true sociopath, just like you told everyone,” Greg’s grip tightened slightly on Sherlock’s hand and shoulder, ignoring the emotions that Sherlock was showing, but submitting to his own.

“I had known you for five years, and not once had you ever willingly brought anyone along to a crime scene with you. And then, that one day I will never forget, you arrived in Brixton with John Watson at your side. Within twenty-four hours, he killed for you,”

Where Greg held the taller man, he could feel Sherlock stiffen in his grip. He chuckled slightly.

“Of course I knew, you berk. You certainly don’t give me enough credit. For the next year and a half, I watched your friendship and love for each other blossom, and then that _bastard_ Moriarty tore it all away from you.

“John Watson. The man who had been one of the bravest and kindest men that I have ever met, became an empty shell; tearing himself up over and over again over your death. I know what loss is like, Sherlock, but I have never seen someone as heart-broken over someone’s death as John Watson was over yours.

“Besides myself.”

“What?”

“I mourned, Sherlock, I really did. But I had to calm my conscience and clear your name before I could start to mourn and move on from my love for you. By then, of course, you were back from the dead,” Greg’s eyebrows furrowed, his head starting to hurt from remembering the pain.

“Greg, I-“

They stopped swaying, “Kiss me,” Greg whispered, wanting Sherlock to be the one in control here.

And Sherlock did.

His hands clutched at the lapels of Lestrade’s blazer, and pulled him tightly into his own slim frame. As their lips hovered over each other, their noses touching, neither could hear anything of the party inside. Their focus was completely on each other.

No cheering.

No laughing.

No music.

They could hear the sound of each other’s breath as it mixed together between their mouths.

The sound of their own heartbeats inside their ears.

Their lips touched softly at first, mouths closed and both waiting for the other to move.

Then something inside Sherlock snapped, Greg only being able to tell by the hitch in Sherlock’s breath and the increasing pull on his blazer. Greg’s hand gripped tighter to Sherlock’s body, moving under his coat to grip his suit.

Sherlock’s hands let go of Greg for a second, instead finding their way around the back of the man’s head to mash their lips together; the passion between them finally being set free.

Greg nibbled slightly on Sherlock’s lips, the other man opening obligingly, and allowing Greg the access to his mouth that both of them so desperately wanted.

Their tongues moved together, dancing just as the two men had been doing previously.

Tasting.

Feeling.

Comforting.

As one tried to devour the other, their lips battled and fought for dominance.

Pulling away, slightly breathless, Greg rest his forehead against Sherlock’s and asked, “Why were you leaving, Sunshine?”

“I-I didn’t think you’d want to dance,”

Greg couldn’t help it, he laughed.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You, and your brilliant mind,” he smiled slightly, “Not so brilliant in the face of love, eh?”

Sherlock smiled, gripping Greg’s face in his hands and reconnecting their lips.

“Promise me, Sunshine, that you’ll never consider taking drugs again without talking it through with me,”

“ _Greg_ -“

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed, kissing Greg softly, “I promise,”

Pulling away from the younger man, Greg gripped his hand tightly.

“You coming back in then?” he asked, pulling on Sherlock’s hopefully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, but obliged, following Greg back into the reception, happy to simply be with the other man in that moment.

The two were finally happy together.

One day, Sherlock would tell Greg about Sherrinford (“ _Not very likely, Lestrade_ ” “ _Whatever you say, Sunshine_ ”), and why his dislike for Mycroft had grown so much over the past few years (“ _It all started with a cream bun-“ “Are you being serious?” “Deadly_.”)

And, even in their old age spent together down in Sussex, Sherlock tending his bees, and Greg reading John’s newly converted Detective novels, Greg continued to call him ‘Sunshine’.

After all, everyone could do with a little sunshine, right?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me while I wrote this fic. I appreciate it very much. I hope that you've enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Until next time :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading


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